Heaven Help Me
by MerryLittlePoet
Summary: It didn't even bother her that Bonnie was getting married. What bothered her, was who she was getting married to. Or rather, who she wasn't getting married to. That person being her.


So ...this is a bullshit idea I came up with in the middle of the night, which turned into a giant mess as soon as I started writin and now ... I don't even know what it is, except for most likely stuffed with mistakes ... But if you manage to enjoy it ... I'm glad.

The bar was so cliché, on a normal day she wouldn't have known whether to laugh at its perfectly ridiculous copy of every film-pub to ever flicker across a TV-screen, or marvel at the ridiculously perfect incarnation of everything you'd ever expect when thinking about the word 'bar'.

As long as your expectation of bars matched those of most higher-middleclass American moviemakers, that is.

To her left, on the far end of the counter, two drunkards were apparently trying to turn their receptive drinks into ice with the sheer power of their will.

Up until now, there was no effect to be witnessed.

They were the only persons present, next to her and the bartender, a woman with dirty blonde hair and an expression so cold, turning things into ice probably wasn't even a challenge to her.

Or maybe she was just bored of polishing glasses. It was all Marceline had seen her do all evening and the only thing she could think of to be more mind-numbing would be to silently stare into her glass and be miserable.

Which was exactly what she had been doing ever since she entered.

With a sigh she drained the rest of its content and pushed it towards the bartender, noting how it slithered smoothly across the counters surface only to be easily snatched up by the woman.

So cliché.

"Another", Marceline mouthed and the Blonde complied, pouring beer into a fresh glass and sliding it back, then starting to wash out Marceline's old one.

She certainly must be bored, Marceline thought.

An idea bubbled up inside her, lost track and flew away.

One of the guys coughed, the other huffed in agreement.

She'd believe that on her search for a place as far away from everything pink and perfect as possible, she might have ended up in some kind of Tarantino-movie, right before the heroes bashed in to fuck shit up, if it weren't for the obvious lack of testosterone-induced dialogue.

Or any dialogue, actually.

Also the two dudes to her left seemed better fit for Wallace anyway.

She sighed once more.

She was pretty confident that she was drunk, mostly because that one part of her brain, the insane one, not that the rest was particular sane, so maybe the _really insane one_, wanted her to jump onto the counter and shout something along the lines of: "To the newlyweds! Princess of everything pink and perfect and what's-his-face!"

She doesn't, of course.

Couldn't, if she wanted to, because ever since she first heard about it, ever since the soon-to-be bride herself told her because "you're my best friend, even though we have our differences, I know you are and I need you or this", something heavy settled in her stomach.

Something that keeps her from shouting and pranking and even floating and _singing._

Nothing ever kept her from singing, not even her stupid dad stealing her stupid fries.

Except for this of course.

Singing, music, had always been her solution for everything and now she lost this too.

Like pretty much everything else.

She wishes she could be angry at Bonnie, is pretty sure she deserves to be, but she just can't.

Probably because it isn't Bonnies fault.

They knew it would come to this, didn't they?

Because no matter how much Marceline wishes she wasn't, Bonnie is Princess Bubblegum before she is everything else. And that means her kingdom comes first, even before her heart.

Even before Marceline's.

And apparently that meant marrying Lord Whatever-the-fuck and living happily ever after with him.

Marceline growls, takes a sip of beer.

She's drunk, right? Getting there, at least.

She isn't even sure if vampires can get drunk. Not anymore.

She was rather confident upon entering, but being drunk is supposed to help, to make things better.

They certainly aren't.

Some of her inner ramble must have turned into an outer ramble, because the bartender is looking at her. Not funny, just less uncaring.

"If your best friend is getting married, then why are you here? ", is the question she doesn't ask.

"Because she isn't my best friend", is the answer Marceline doesn't give, watching as the bartender sets down the glass she must have been busying herself with for however long Marceline rambled.

She rips a piece of paper of a little notepad and throws it away.

Marceline is quite sure it had her charge scribbled on it.

What a strange kind of pity.

She wishes PB was here.

She's been wishing for a lot of things.

In the course of this evening.

In the course of the past week.

Ever since … then.

The sob that bubbles out of her chest is as unexpected as seeing her own hands gripping the counter so hard the smooth wood cracks beneath her fingers.

What if she had stayed? Had decided not to run, could she have stopped any of this?

When Bonnie told her about her responsibilities, what if she had asked …

But it was too late now, anyway.

She'd go back tomorrow. She'd spend the rest of the night here, fail to drown her sorrows, and go back tomorrow.

She'd tell them she'd spend the night at a cool bar doing punk stuff, because weddings where lame, especially pink candy weddings. And she'd tease Finn for sulking, which he would do, because he still had a babysitter-crush on PB. And Bonnie herself would be pissed at her for leaving when she needed her most and they'd get into a fight and make up and everything would be like before except that it wasn't and would never be again.

She would float and prank and sing again.

If only to make Bonnie think she was happy, so Bonnie would feel free to be happyherself.

She'd break her heart around her, if needed be.

If only to make Bonnie happy.

End


End file.
